


Aubergine

by avocadoave



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadoave/pseuds/avocadoave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More Gillovny trash inspired by DD's vegetable shirt collection. A companion piece to Souvenir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aubergine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dashakay for her beta expertise and to aloysiavirgata for the zucchini inspiration.

The buzzing startles her. She caps her highlighter and puts down her script, grabbing for the phone before it vibrates off the nightstand. She sees his name and smiles. She touches the screen to accept the FaceTime call.

His face appears. His eyes are red. He’s stifling a yawn.

“Hey,” she says, glancing at the time on her phone. 8:55 a.m. “You’re up past your bedtime.”

“Oh good, you’re American again. I was afraid I’d be conversing with Lady Mountbatten this evening.”

“I just did it for that video,” she mutters. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Calling you. That extra half hour in the time difference for India always fucks me up,” he says, scratching his chin. “Good morning. It _is_ morning there, right?”

She nods, settling back against a pile of embroidered pillows, sipping from the lukewarm cup of tea on the nightstand. “How did the rest of the Comic Con thing go?”

“Okay. Audience reactions during and after the screening were mostly positive. The crowd didn’t love it when Chris started talking about the breakup. Lots of interviews before and after. The same questions over and over.”

“So…the usual.”

“I liked your tweet,” he says, waggling his brows.

“Yeah, well, I was lying here in my bed, watching the shitty live feed, wishing I was in New York, and I found myself desperately missing Chris. You know how I get.”

“Missing Chris, huh? Well, I guess I’ll let you go. I’m sure you and he have a standing Skype date or something—”

“You know better.”

He gives her a sleepy smile.

He switches his phone to the other hand and a flash of crimson on his shoulder comes into view.

“What the hell have you got on?” she asks, squinting. She feels around on the duvet for her glasses and slips them on.

“What?”

“Hold your phone away from you, I want to see what you’re wearing.”

“That’s quite a line—“

“Shut up. Let me see.”

He pans the camera up his body. Black boxer briefs, a faded blue t-shirt and a red, silk kimono.

“Oh. My. God,” she says. “Where did you get that?”

“What?” he asks, fingering the edge of the red silk. “This old thing? I’ve had it for years.”

“Liar! I’ve seen your blue shorty kimono robe thing. That,” she pokes the phone screen, “that is my robe from _Streetcar._ ”

“Is it?” He checks the tag in the back. “Well, would you look at that? Property of Young Vic Theatre. Huh.”

“How did you get that?”

“I know a guy, who knows a girl, who knows another guy, who will ‘lift’ things from wardrobe for a hundred pounds.”

“You have to give that back.”

“Come here and make me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“This robe is just a quick twenty-five-hour trip away.”

“David—“

“As am I.” He tempts.

She sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Tennessee Williams wrote, ‘For time is the longest distance between two places,’” he says.

“You’re trying to convince me to fly around the world to come retrieve a stolen robe that is _my_ costume in a Tennessee Williams play by using a quote about distance by Tennessee Williams? The way your fucking mind works—“

He smiles smugly.

“Is this payback for taking your vegetable shirt?” she says.

“You better believe it.”

“I took a t-shirt out of your drawer. You paid a man to commit a felony.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a proportionate response?”

She covers her face with her hand. “I am not visiting you in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.”

“You wouldn’t bake me a cake with a file in it?” He pouts.

“I don’t bake.”

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She covers the camera with her thumb.

“I’m hanging up now,” she hears him say.

She pulls her thumb away and holds out her arm so he can see the ‘eggplant’ t-shirt and black yoga pants.

“Some shirt I stole from some guy. Stupid, really.”

“The shirt is stupid or the guy is stupid?”

She taps her chin, thinking.

“Consider your answer very carefully. I’m about three seconds away from ending this call and tossing this robe down the garbage chute.”

 

She thinks about the first time she saw the shirt. It was the second or third day of filming. He walked out of his trailer wearing faded jeans and a purple t-shirt with ‘eggplant’ across the chest in a white collegiate-type font.

She snorted.

"What?” he asked.

“Nice shirt,” she laughed.

“What’s wrong with it?” he questioned.

“Why are you advertising, um, that?”

“Eggplant?” He asked, confused.

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon.”

“What? I thought you liked eggplant.”

“Oh, I do. I do.”

“Fill me in here. Why are you being weird about a vegetable shirt?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Um, eggplant has a sexual connotation. Apparently it’s quite popular to use the eggplant emoji to refer to, ahem, large male genitalia.”

“What?!” he hissed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, putting her hand on his forearm. “I just read an article on _Slate_ , apparently eggplant has surpassed the banana as the most phallic food.”

“Oh God. I’d better go change.”

“That would probably be best. Lots of reporters and paparazzi around today.”

He jogged back to his trailer.

“Don’t put on a zucchini shirt either!” She called after him.

He flipped her the bird, stopped and turned back to her. “Hey!”

“What?”

“You’ve sent me texts with eggplant emoji.”

She smiled. “I know. I’m very with it. I’ll see you in makeup.”

She smiles at the memory and hugs the soft purple cotton to her. “I love this,” she says with a smile.

“The shirt or the guy?”

Her phone chooses that moment to drop the call.

***

His screen reads Call Failed.

“Fuck,” he mutters and flops face down on his bed.

Of course they would have technical difficulties tonight. All he’d wanted to do was talk to her. See her. It had been a long day and he’d become progressively more cranky and curt with reporters without her to temper him, without her to assume half the burden. He hated doing promotional stuff without her. He missed her subtle eye rolls at Chris’ comments. The unspoken look between them that asked, ‘will this ever be over?’ The way she would occasionally rest her head on his shoulder or squeeze his hand under the table. She made it bearable.

He gets up, slips the robe off and carefully arranges it on a wood hanger in his closet. The last thing he wants to do is incur her wrath.

A text alert sounds. He dives on the duvet and grabs for his phone.

“Both.” The text reads followed by text bubble with an eggplant emoji.

He smiles. His phone chimes again.

“And if you lose that robe I will fucking kill you.” Followed by a knife and kiss emoji.

**Author's Note:**

> The Slate.com article referenced is "Move Over, Banana" by Amanda Hess. 
> 
> The Tennessee Williams quote is from "The Glass Menagerie." The line is, "I didn't go to the moon, I went much further--for time is the longest distance between two places."


End file.
